Your ex lover is dead
by Nobody's Normal
Summary: And perhaps one day, I will knock on your door and see how you're doing, but I'll have to let go of the thought that you're still waiting for me somewhere first.
1. with the first snow

_Written while listening to** Stars - Your Ex-lover is dead . **Dedicated to that girl I hardly ever see anymore..._

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**Your Ex-Lover is dead**

I thought I saw you at the market today, wearing your strange, innocent smile, your eyes a vivid green, bringing a soft breeze on my face and straight through my heart. Moments smell of pine-trees when you are around, but then again, you almost never are.

I thought I saw you standing there all alone, buying twinkling Christmas lights and little striped candy canes, and for a second I considered approaching you, but then the crowd took you away. From that day on, I don't trust my mind too much. My imagination, it seems, is running away with me. And it seems that you, once flesh and bones and burning skin, sighs and moans and pants and flushed cheeks and violent hands and passionate lips pressed on my body, are nothing more anymore than a figment of my ill-bred imagination.

Thing which is quite silly, actually. Not even my imagination is on my side these days. Couldn't blame her. Wasn't I the one that used to say that love is for fools?

You would frown and turn your back at me, pretending to want to sleep. I knew you would spend the night awake, but I also knew I would not get another word out of you, apart from a murmured good-night when I would kiss your shoulder. I would not regret it though, hurting you that way. Your broken face would bring a smirk on my lips and I would remember the old days, when infuriating you was the only thing that could get my blood rushing; I would remember who I used to be.

What I gave up for your company in a four-poster bed.

What I gave up for a few pine trees and the fluttering of my heart.

You would walk around the house on those nights, pouring whiskey in those glasses we had for champagne, even if we never used to drink or even have a bottle of it at home. It never occurred to anyone to buy a different set of glasses. Perhaps it reminded us of how mismatched we were ourselves, or perhaps we never cared about anything but each other.

Each other that we were quite fond of letting down. I would lie sleepless in our bed, eyes fixated on our colorless ceiling, thinking of Hogwarts, of the war and of raging flames, thinking about how we were nothing and everything tangled together, our existence bearing no meaning at all, brought together by sheer reaction to normality and the existing standards of love, not even once thinking of stepping into the living room and cuddling you in my arms, allowing you to cry for everything you had dreamt and you were never meant to have with me.

Because how could I, really?

Some dreams should be torn down early on, while some things should never happen. I don't know into which category this situation of ours falls, but I had begun to feel it in my gut, things should, and would, soon be over.

It dawned on me when you began not bothering returning to our bed after those outbursts, and one morning I found your whiskey spilt on our cheep carpet and our ashtray full of cigarettes I thought you had forgotten how to roll.

I felt my heart sink in my chest, but kept on walking straight ahead and out of the door.

It was the first day of winter.

Soon enough you were talking to me only when necessary, not babbling ceaselessly over lunch or by the fireplace when the only thing I wanted was to read the news and have a drink by myself after a long day. In contrast with what I believed, it wasn't a pleasant change of pace. Your life became even more unknown to me, and soon you were nothing more than a stranger I would tear my heart out of my chest for.

Sex had become even more violent since that night you submitted to smoking once more, you straddling me every night with a mere whispered 'I'm cold' and allowing me to devour you until you were screaming my name, voice desperate and needy, and it was in those moments, I believe, that my heart escaped my chest forever.

Or was it with the first snow?

I knew it would be our last Christmas together. The messages from Ginny that I used to find regularly while you were taking showers, joined with my not-so-innocent calls to Astoria were evidence enough. But that day Muggle London was so indisputably pretty, that warmed even the empty space where my heart used to beat. That day London town was so majestically beautiful, that I felt like kneeling in front of you and begging you to never leave me. In my naivety, I had thought it would be enough.

I bought you some flowers, irises if I recall correctly, and headed home. Suddenly I wanted to kiss you so badly that my eyes were watering at the thought alone. I would give Astoria up; I would break your phone. I would tie your eyes and change your dreams of children that I could never give you. I would build a new world for us, where we would be accepted, where we could be heard. I would make you fall for me again, and get myself a new heart made only for you. I would believe in love.

I would have believed in love, if you had been there that day, waiting for me. I would have given up my pride and went public with the Boy who Lived as my partner. I would have torn down the whole Malfoy heritance, if my eyes had rested on you that afternoon.

But it was never meant to be.

On that year's first day of snow, I picked up smoking.

Three months later I sold the house and never passed by that street again. I bet it doesn't even exist anymore. I bet the hole in my heart swallowed it upon my departure.

And on the other hand, I still think you are there, lying on that green sofa you used to hate, reading the daily prophet that you disliked as well, waiting for me to return from work because you always got home earlier, being the fucking Hero of the world. And I would unlock the door and you would smile that brilliant smile, blinding me with a happiness that wasn't my own.

Every day I persuade myself you are still there, but perhaps I'll take a shortcut for the shops and return a bit later.

Astoria never asks why I only bring her irises.

She never asks why I never want to walk through muggle London on snowy days, and only frowns when I smudge Amelia street on the map.

And perhaps one day, I will knock on your door and see how you're doing, but I'll have to let go of the thought that you're still waiting for me somewhere first.

So perhaps, for the time being, I'll have another cigarette and come home to you a bit later.

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_My Christmas depression is present at last. Great! Review for me if you liked - or not :)_


	2. the curve of your spine

_Chapter's soundtrack : Feels like the end of the world, by Firewater._

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Minds change like the seasons, they say. So fucking tired of sayings. You would agree too, I guess, and I smile bitterly at the thought. I rush to contradict it immediately. Most of the times you laughed just to keep me happy. But you did many things just to make me happy, so no use lingering on that.

There is no use in almost anything I think about these days, so no use pondering on use in general, either. Just like the thing with you and your reasons. No reason you ever gave my 'whys' was ever reasonable. Meaning seemed to always elude you.

Fucking, pathetic Gryffindors. Heart over mind, heart over body, heart over your own troublesome existence, heart over everything, and I am grumbling to myself and it sounds so stupid that I should choke on my smoke and rid the world of thoughts like these. I keep the number of my drags at a minimum. This is my last cigarette left, and I promised Astoria to quit. The kids hate it too. Whoever told them I love the fucking thing.

Smoking. Used to hate it so terribly. And then you left, leaving only one shirt in our closet and your tobacco on the armchair of the living room, no filters even, as if you were screaming at me through the smoke rings 'die, bastard die,die' and I know I am being paranoid but the mind takes dangerous turns when my thoughts linger on you for too long.

But then I picked it up and sat down on the armchair, feeling so lonely and tired, and the snow was falling so silently, and the town was the same as always while I watched it through the huge window of our living room, people going by, small dots on white canvas. But you weren't there anymore.

Cliché. Now I sound like a pathetic poet. I hate poets. Making things rhyme, how stupid. Things never rhyme. My life with you was a cacophony, a cacophony I loved and hated down to the last minute, and it might sound sick but…

I opened the tobacco and it tickled my nostrils with the memory of you, your silence, your warnings, the way you used to show your teeth as if I'd back down and let you have your way, your passion, your fire, but never a laugh.

I can't recall a laugh. Smiles, yes. Smoke rings, yes.

Fucking bastard.

"_Draco"_

Oh shut up! I should have forgotten your voice by now! Alas! I should have forgotten your face too. It's been so many winters since that one, and even so, each and every one I'm 21 again. Flashback after flashback after flashback. I've been pacing in this square for so long there is no snow left beneath my boots. Soon there'll be none left in the sky as well and I'll be rescued from this insanity.

Moving to the Bahamas would also help. Nah, couldn't stay away from this misery. It's been with me so long I'd hate to abandon it. You hear? Abandoning things is bad.

Bad bad bad little Gryffindor.

I knew not hating you would be a bad idea.

But you kept showing up and toying with my limits, and Merlin knows my limits are frail. I would push you up against the wall, swearing and begging you at the same time, begging you to stop this madness because no good was ever gonna come of it.

'_Just shut up'_

Yes that's what you'd say, exactly. I'm surprised at how perfectly my mind has preserved your memory. But when my wife says 'buy this, buy that' it's as if it's made of holes and leaking information. _God _I hate this woman. I hate your woman too, but I'll console myself and say I hate all of them.

And suddenly she's answering a doorbell I don't recall ringing and I'm in front of a house I wouldn't like to be. Her flaming hair is blinding me, and I think I look positively insane, gaping at her hair colour. How did I disapparate I cannot understand, but I'll hit my head on the wall when I'm finally away from here.

"Malfoy?" I grimance. I hate her voice, too. I realize this is not my imagination and I really do stupid things even after we broke up. Not really proud of myself, but this woman won't let me go without thinking I'm crazy if I don't speak, I guess. And Malfoys care a lot about their public image, so I will.

"Hello"

"I don't mean to sound rude, but why are you here?"

You don't sound rude. If I respected myself in the least I'd say this is the first time you actually sound sane to me.

Bummer.

"Is Potter here?"

I'm sweating. I didn't really want to ask, but what else is there to do now? My fake world is crumbling and I sincerely hope you are not. Last favor I ask of you, so please, Potter. Please.

"No, and I think he will be late. If I can tell him something, let me know"

Ah, come on admit it, fate. You like me a little.

"Thank you. I will reach him in some other way. Excuse me"

Your kids are running around the house in a frenzy, and my annoyance doesn't allow me not to look inside.

A fatal mistake.

_Fucking Potter. _

"Nice couch." I state, before managing to stop myself. She blinks at my silly comment. If I was in my right mind I would blink too. Or go die.

"Thank you. I guess." She answers, narrowing her eyes.

Clever Gryffindor, this one. As bad as they get.

"Well, good night to you" I bow slightly and turn around to leave.

I hear the door close behind me. You bought the same couch. You bought the same fucking couch. Didn't you hate it? Didn't you hate …me? Of course you did. Silly little me.

It's snowing again.

"_Draco. Shut up, Draco"_

Gah! I need another smoke. I search furiously in my pockets, my hands shaking.

"_I'm ok, just can't sleep"_

Fuck! Just one cigarette, come on! My steps are fast, I really don't want any more unpleasant things to happen. I'll just find one more fucking cigarette and disapparate out of this area.

"Draco"

I really am insane.

"Fuck you." I snarl, desperately. I need to calm down.

"My my, no need to be rude, Draco"

That deep voice pierces my head and I realize I am not talking with my self anymore. No. I am much worse than mental.

I am ruined for life.

I raise my head and take in the image of Potter, looking at me with curiosity, surprise, and something else I can't quite understand.

"Hey" he says once our eyes lock together and my legs threaten to fail me when I need them most.

"Potter" I nod, the words coming easily to me. Many years of practice, I guess.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, crooking an eyebrow.

If I only knew.

"Was in the neighborhood."

He is studying me. Ah! Found my cigarette. I put it on my lips and fire it up, all the while feeling Potter's eyes on me. I must look terrible.

"Since when?" he asks, pointing at my only salvation that rests between my fingers.

A trap.

I do not fall into traps.

"Been a while" I state.

"I see"

We stand there, staring at each other, the street empty and dark, snow falling on his raven hair as I get lost in a trance. He seems lost too, and I'd hate to break this silence. I can almost feel.

I can almost…

"Harry!" a cheerful voice calls from behind my back. Ginny's at the door. I do not tear my eyes away from his. He hesitates, but does so reluctantly. I almost smile at that.

"Yes honey!" he answers and I roll my eyes. Honey. I'll be sick.

"Come inside, you'll catch a cold"

Typical women. Nice. So nice I'll die right here.

"Nice seeing you again" he says, holding out his hand. I look at it and then back at his face. I snort and resume walking, leaving him behind, hand outstretched. I take another bitter drag. I hear him walking away soon, and then I understand, I can't hold myself.

"Potter!" I call out, and I hear his footsteps stop. I smirk to myself.

"Nice couch" I sneer, and I can almost feel his eyes burning holes in the back of my head.

Payback, for all the times when my wife called me 'honey', I was thinking about the curve of your spine.

Potter.


	3. Anything but absolution

**Anything but absolution**

It's raining since that bloody day. Not that this is an unusual phenomenon in this sad town, it's just that now it pisses me off. I have a right to be annoyed. You have no right to be unaffected. Hell, you have no right to be unaware either.

This fever will be the end of me. My throat is killing me and every time I swallow it feels as if I'm trying to down a watermelon in one single gulp. The house is cold, and yet I am sweating. My sweat is also cold.

Everything is normal again, that's what I tell myself. I got closure. I saw you, wasn't that what I wanted? I mocked you, shouldn't that be enough? And yet it's not. It never was. And now I know why.

Action is nothing without reaction.

I spent my whole childhood teasing you, testing your limits, each time pushing a little further, just a little further, to see what I could get. And I never got anything. I had thought you were a failure, a creature that had no ego to provoke, no passion to awaken.

And then that night, that god-damned night, it all came crushing down. I don't really know what felt so good. The nail marks were carved on my skin as if on wood, the bruises on my hands and hips seemed decided to linger. And yet each night I would trace my wounds and press a little on the angry-red flesh, just to remember a ghost of your touch, a whisper of your darkness, and wonder.

What it was that you wanted. What would it be that you'd get.

And now, that freaking question that keeps hammering at my brain.

Do you even remember?

Such questions should never be uttered, for the answers you get, even if they turn out to be the answers you craved, will most probably not prove to be your absolution. We tend to deify what we want but cannot get. I guess it's the need of the mind to keep you on edge, a trick, if you will, to capture your heartbeat and burn your nerve ends. I guess mine are charred by now.

There's a weird sound coming from the window. My head jerks towards it, and my muscles complain too much for my liking. I feel my hands numb and my heart climbs my chest and reaches my neck to join the watermelon and have a party there simply because it can. My mind tries to rationalize the image before my eyes but in vain.

I know your owl. And this is it. This is your fucking owl. At my fucking window.

This fucking night.

And I should fucking move.

In agony I realize, I don't really want to.

Let it be a dream, let it be a lie, just…let things be. I'm used to a stateless state of things, I'm used to misery, bitterness, my own crazy thoughts that are a kind of consolation on lonely winter nights, I'm used to this swamp and it pains me to be forced out of it. It scares me that even if something happens and I get out of the swamp, the mud will still cling to my shirt and pants and never come off.

I knew this would happen, because I know you. And you never change, it seems. Come on, get back at me, Potter. Drag me out of my shell only to double-lock me back in. I always loved your chains, you know.

I move in a trance, and open my window. The bird is fidgety and flies away once I get a hold of the envelope it carries. I look at it for only a second before I tear it open. No use taking it slow. It's all going downhill now.

The page is blank, and for a moment I think this is it, I can throw it away. Silly thoughts we all cherish in a crisis, because then, black ink paints the white sheet of this damn paper.

And so it begins.

"_Draco?"_

I stare at the letters blankly, and deciding on what I feel feels completely meaningless, but I try none the less.

"_Is that you?"_

The letters keep coming and I grab a pen from my desk to sign my damnation. Well, whatever, have signed many of those in the past.

"_Potter"_ I state, still numb and now a bit shaky as well.

"_So it's 'Potter' again, huh?"_

A failed attempt at lightening the mood. I see. Typical Potter.

"_Now more than ever"_

There's a pause, and I smirk at the thought that this one might just have hurt a little. Just a little bit.

"_I see. Years have no effect on your mood. It's ok."_

"_Years have no effect on your character, either. What do you want?"_

"_I want to speak with you. Have a drink with me tomorrow"_

"_No"_

Another pause.

"_Muggle London, Soho Sq. 9 pm. There's a pub nearby, called the four Greyhounds. I will be waiting for you there"_

I do not want to answer. I frankly cannot. My hands are shaking.

"_Draco"_

I still do not reply. The letters fade as I watch. I realize you are preparing to write something melodramatic, I imagine your eyes burning the paper with determination as you think of what to write next. And I know that in the end, you will say nothing of what you want to say. Because this is a thing we share.

"_I will wait until 10."_

So be it.


	4. Decima

**Decima**

_Chapter's soundtrack: Nick Cave and the bad Seeds, Jesus of the Moon_

I never was a fan of Muggle mythology. I was, however, a fan of the inevitable. I always saw fate everywhere I went, tangled in everything I did. In my father's words, on my pointed wand, hanging from my trembling lips, toying with your fingertips as you murdered smoke rings in midair, climbing up our curtains and lunging out of the window to the blinding traffic lights below, right into the fair hands of Atropos and from there, to no return.

Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos.

To create, to predestine, and to end.

I sometimes like to curl up on the carpet like some random beggar, watching the lights of the night for a while until I fall asleep, head on my knees. I woke up one of those nights with a terrible headache and my mind conjured up this insane image of tiny little Potters swinging from my hair strands, and it was most likely because of the booze because my imagination is never this vivid when I'm sober, but they were smiling I recall, laughing and swinging back and forth, back and forth like little children enjoying a new toy.

I tried to touch one with my finger, see if it would explode and turn into pink smoke rings, swirling around my fingers and disappearing inside my nostrils as I imagined little Potters would do, but it jumped away from my touch, dragging my hair strand along, and my eyes were heavy as all the little Potters did the same, just pulling my hair and sparkling yellow, sparkling yellow and calling me to sleep…

Of all the winters we've been apart, this one is the worst yet. Why do I think about you so much, why do I despise my wife so much, she's been so kind, a good wife, and I have a good life, a nice, fake happiness I must indulge in.

It's a white lie to myself, a white little lie. I've told worse. In the end, everything is meant to be, so grin and bear it, little fool.

Oh, fuck you, Potter. I do not really care about the past. You're dead to me, it is so over,6 years now it's been done and over with, but the truth is it was _I_ who came knocking on your door for no apparent reason but _fuck you_ again if I'm to blame myself once more.

I need a reaction. I know it will be the end of me but I need a fucking reaction. Like :

"_I loved you once, but you were a jerk"_

"_I miss you"_

"_I hate you"_

"_I'm over you"_

"_I am not over you"_

"_I still think about you sometimes"_

"_I think about you and curse the day we got together"_

All these alternatives, couldn't you just pick one? Say something. Anything. React for the love of Merlin.

And to hell with this damn snow. I know I cursed the rain last night but I could use some now, because I AM walking through muggle London and six years now I never have done so on a snowy day, so I am trembling and I cannot control it, because it is all in the head, the Healer had said long ago and I can only realize it and face it.

In my head, my ass.

Well, ok.

This is Soho sq. And it is half past ten. Yeah, I know. It's half past ten. I sit down on a bench still wet from last night's rain and today's snowflakes, and grab my tobacco and filters to begin my ritual. I place the filter between my frozen lips, and remove my gloves to roll my cigarette properly. It's so cold tonight. A snowflake rests on my nose as I put the tobacco in place and fight with the humidity until it is decent. I put it between my lips and my zippo is all too happy to help in my slow death once more. I take a drag of it and stand up.

I walk the street to the pub and smile at the thought that you'll be gone. I came all the way down here to not see you. Oh I love the irony.

I'm just on time for absence.

But then again, I know how that's like. No surprises there.

I put the cigarette out and enter the pub that is full of people. I scan the room for an empty table to sit, but there's none. I feel eyes on me, and mine search again only to meet drunk, emerald irises, piercing me through and through. I clench my jaw in defense. He looks gorgeous, the semi-darkness of the pub reminding me of how he used to look in the darkness of our bedroom on Friday afternoons and doing no good to the trembling of my hands.

He shakes his head sideways, in an expression that means something in between 'I knew it' and 'You're unbelievable, you jerk'.

Now _this _is a reaction. Therefore, as a thank you for this little gift, I will take a sit across your table, Potter. Not that I have too much of a choice anyway.

I throw my gloves onto the wooden surface of the table and take a sit, waiting for him to speak. I am tempted to look at the ceiling, because his smile is making me want to punch him. Great. Now I have a drunken ex with no obvious intentions. I really did not need the 'drunken' part. I would much rather having no ex and no intentions altogether. But what can one do now.

I expect a pleasant conversation starter. Something 'Pottery', like, hm… 'You are late' 'So, you came' 'Been a long time' 'Broke your watch?' and vote on the first. Nice and clean. Except, Potter is not sober. And a not sober Potter, is a not pottery Potter.

"Why now?" he asks abruptly, eyes squinting to slits, the hand on his beer clenching. Just great. The waiter is here, so I take my time while I order a McFarland and smile at the man. I turn to Potter reluctantly.

"I don't understand you, I am afraid, Potter" I state as calmly as I can.

"You don't!" he chuckles and bangs his beer against the table. "Ginny keeps pestering me since that night. A Malfoy showing up at our door! Why the hell would, Draco Malfoy of all people, knock on Harry Potter's door and comment on his couch! Are you fucking insane? Showing up after six years! Six whole years and commenting to my wife on my couch! What madness drove you to my house, Malfoy? Are you finally clinically insane? What do the Healers say, is there no hope? Should I kill you myself to rid you of your misery?"

Ok, this is more than a reaction. Calm down, you fucking hero.

"Are you done?"

He just stares at me, outraged. I had many things to say, but now everything is a fog I cannot get through. I go for honesty for a change.

"It was a mistake. Showing up at your door. I do not know how I got there, and believe me, if I had a rational explanation I would use it, even if it was a lie. Truth is, I do not know why.

There goes my dignity." He remains silent now, taken aback I guess by this sudden outburst of truth.

"Are we done here? My wife's waiting for me"

He calms down a bit and I see a flicker of an emotion other that rage in his eyes. He looks at the table.

"It's been a long time"

"Yeah" I answer quite naturally. My anxiety abandons me at the sound of his voice as he calms down. I'm sinking in the abyss of his eyes and suddenly feel like crying. My beer arrives and we drink in silence, a beautiful song playing in the background and relaxing my senses further. I do not want to leave.

But then, the cinders of anger stir in me. It cannot end like this. Too long I've sat in silence.

"Are you happy, Potter?"

Because I'm not. I do not add that. He looks at me again, offended. It seems he has picked up on my tone.

"What does that concern _you_?"

I frown, anger boiling now. It's funny how easily my mood changes around this man.

"Well I figured since you left me to start up a family, I should ask about your happiness. I think poor Ginny would be very annoyed to wake up one morning and find you gone. So answer me, Potter, honestly this last time, are you happy?"

He stands up, and I think he is going to punch me.

"At least I've stopped hurting" he spits and storms out of the door.

Ouch. He did punch me in the end. Nice one indeed.

My mind fights my heart as Potter walks away, but my legs soon decide on going after him. I see him walking towards the alley on the right, and hurry after him for no apparent reason at all. I have nothing to say. I merely want to. I want to go after Harry Potter.

He looks back at the sound of my footsteps. Snow has turned into rain now, and it is more than a drizzle. His hair is soaking wet and dripping, his face is wild as he screams at me words I would kill to never leave his lips.

"You turned me into this! You! With your arrogance and your disdain and your anger!" he's accusing me, the bastard, walking towards me and grabbing me by the neck of my coat. And I can say nothing. I want to say nothing because warm breath is washing over my mouth and it smells of beer and despair and his grip screams reaction and fuck it all if this isn't what I've wanted for six years.

"You're so beautiful" it leaves my mouth before I can stop it, simply because it's the truth and I do not care anyway, my dignity is splattered everywhere in this dark alley and boots will tread on it for years. He spits at my face.

"Fuck you!" he screams at me again and I smile as I always did, nothing changed. Everything's the same, or maybe just a little worse. Just a little.

Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos.

The Moirae were supposed to appear three nights after a child's birth to determine the course of its life. To create, to predestine, and to end.

"Kiss me" I whisper into the rain, not even caring if he'll hear, but he does, and his expression turns desperate all of a sudden, wet lips crash on mine, and I am alive again, the world smells of earth and rain and beer and I press him onto the wall but I do believe in between this kiss of teeth and lips there are curses appointed at me, but who cares, really, Harry Potter?

"You were always absent, Malfoy. Always gone. Always cold. You're warm now. You're warm" he is mumbling nonsense or maybe they are not, and hands are inside my shirt and touching my flesh, and I think vaguely that I must indeed be warm because his hands are frozen, but the kiss is heaven and my heart is beating like crazy. Merlin help me if he does not move I will fuck him against this wall.

I kiss his neck and he is gasping, grinding our bodies together in what feels like despair, and I slide my hands inside his shirt and feel his spine, trace it so I can remember, and I do remember, I do remember…

"Do you know what I've been doing for six years, Malfoy?" I take his mouth again because I love his voice and adore his lips, and what do I care, why should I, about what he has to say now. What will it fix, what is done cannot be undone.

"I've been at every gay club in muggle London, every fucking Saturday night. Looking for a blond guy that looked enough like you, and I've had them all, I don't think there are any left, but they never felt like you, they never did, they never did…"

I freeze. I've been mourning these six years. Seeing only my wife and even her, with the lights off. And you…

I pull away and watch you panting, gaze foggy and questioning. "No" you whisper, and I know you've understood.

I'm going to walk away now, Potter.

Your gaze hardens, as you try to gather up your dignity, but I fear it has joined mine on the floor.

"Goodbye, Potter" I state, composing myself and turning around to leave.

"You'll never see me again" you whisper, and I almost laugh at the melodrama that is our savior.

"Yeah, I figured that" I reply as I begin to walk away.

In this moment I realize that I may never find my absolution, but I can always deprive you of yours.

Action is nothing without reaction, and the reaction you get is not always the one you wanted.

As the rain falls, I think I can hear you mutter something like 'I do not think you have' and then nothing.

.

Absolutely nothing.

* * *

_~I stepped out of the St. James Hotel, I'd left you behind curled up like a child_

_A change is gonna come, and as the door whispered shut_

_I walked on down the high-windowed hall_

_You lay sleeping on the unmade bed, the weatherman on the television_

_In the St. James Hotel said that the rains are gonna come_

_And I stepped out on the street all sparkling clean with the early morning dew…..~_


	5. The boy on the train

_Chapter's soundtrack : Carry me - Nick Cave and the bad seeds_

**The boy on the train**

Do you know the truth about truths? Truths are bitter, but that is not even close to what I'm trying to get at. The truth about all truths is that they have a lie lurking in their corners. Just like the edges of a smile that's faltering. A lie is always there, even if you consider yourself honest enough not to tell it. The lie is waiting, eating at your insides and trying to get out. Perhaps it is a lie to yourself, perhaps it is so small that you think you should pay no mind to it, but the bitter truth about the lie is that its presence is true.

I'm getting confused. Scratch that. I am confused. That's because the lie has taken form and is sitting beside me all the time these days. I try to will it away, but my mind won't obey me. The lie is drinking my coffee and smoking my cigarettes. Yes that should be it, because smoking this much is humanly impossible.

The letters kept on coming, every night at my window. Empty letters. White, blank, excruciatingly vacant of words. I would take them and unfold them, waiting for the words, waiting for something, even though deep inside I knew you were not going to write anything. They kept on coming for a week, and then they stopped.

I believe that was around the time that my wife left me. I did not notice her leave, and I don't remember getting a goodbye. She took the kids with her and I haven't heard from anyone since.

I do not mind. The lie is here. The lie is with me because it knows that if it leaves, I'll fall to the floor and never rise again.

Sometimes a creature wakes in me, opens its jaws wide – and screams. It's terribly cold in those moments, but moments pass, and I hang on to that thought for dear life. Moments pass. Moments pass.

Moments…

I need some time to realize I'm screaming. I need some time to realize it's me and not some stranger next door. It feels as if I'm watching myself, completely calm, screaming my lungs out and wondering what that fool over there is doing. I know, I swear I know this is not normal. I also swear I cannot stop my vocal chords.

Calm down. Calm down. Have a smoke. Calm down.

_Yes like this, Draco_

And just like that, the fool is crying again. The love-stricken, insane little fool.

There is a reason for black n white photos being so dramatically moving. Some may say it's simply because they are a thing naturally connected to the past. But it's the past that's colorless in itself. The past that you cannot grasp, the colors fading away.

You are my black and white slowly turning grey. There's color pooling at your feet in my dreams lately. Red like freshly squeezed cherries, red like…like…

Oh Lord.

There was a song I heard once that said 'when there's nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire'.

I did not for one second believe that there was nothing left to burn. You know, the end is just a word, and it is supposed to tell you something by defining a situation. It says 'that was it, move on. There's nothing left'. How can you even believe this, when 'unfinished business' is hanging above your head like an ironic tomb stone.

So you see, there's always something left to burn, as long as something exists somewhere. And therefore, I kept on burning myself to tiny little remains of a man.

And then the news arrived with the Daily Prophet.

I always thought it's pathetic to consider yourself destroyed by a relationship while you're still young and life is waiting for you. But how can you cast away these little demons in your head saying 'you're not going to feel that way again'. In the end it's not about you. (Again.)

I miss myself, you know. Not that I was well back then. Not that I was a better person. I wasn't and it would be a lie to feed my mind with such a thought. I miss how the world used to feel, how the rain used to soothe me, how firm I was in my beliefs, how determined I was to follow the flow of things.

Little did I realize that knowing the flow was making me push the current to go even faster. I did not really live it. I rushed though our life together in a frenzy not to get hurt. But like all people that think their beliefs and not their experiences make them wise, I fell prey to my fears and dwell in them ever since.

You would say it serves me right, wouldn't you? At that thought my mind commands my lips to smile. The corners of my mouth feel numb. I give it up and rest my head between my hands again. It feels so terribly heavy.

I'm wasted. I did not have too much to drink, I've drunk more in the past weeks, but I feel so terribly dizzy and distant from myself. I'm pathetic. Are you happy now? The world is a fog and your name spills from my lips too many times for my liking.

"_Sit down you fucking bastard! Sit down and talk with me because I swear if you walk out the fucking door Draco Malfoy, I will cut your balls and hang them from the freaking ceiling!"_

"_Surprisingly enough, you're eloquent only when you're steaming, Potter. As pleasant as that may be, I have to go to work. Some of us work for real throughout the week"_

_I do not know why I'm doing that, I swear. It's…natural. It's easy. It's driving you nuts. _

_You grab fistfuls of your hair and scream. You actually scream. The sound shakes me from head to toe and I turn into stone, eyes wide. What the fuck?_

_Your voice comes out shaky and ironic once you speak again and it's so alien to me that I shiver._

"_You fucking fool. You have a job because of me! You have a life because of me, you traitor!" you're screaming again. I think my heart has stopped beating. _

_Anger at your words overpowers astonishment and I take a step towards you._

"_So what? You wanted to do it. I never asked you to! And stop it with the whining already! Two years all I hear is your whining! I never see my parents because I'm with you! I gave up everything- look at me Potter!- Every fucking little thing, to be with your sorry ass!"_

"_Oh shut up! I could breathe only one word and you would find yourself behind bars and you know it! Yourself and your entire stupid family!"_

_The confidence with which you say these things is driving me insane. I pin you to the wall._

"_Don't talk like this about my family! If you want to say something about me then ok! Here I am. Say it!"_

_We stay there for minutes or perhaps hours, feeling the sheer tension between us without being able to say another word. Finally, you speak._

"_This is going nowhere"_

_It is a whisper, but it is enough to make my breath hitch._

"_Leave, then" I snarl and throw you onto the wall, letting go of the neck of your shirt. _

_I do not look back._

There is a spell, you know, that allows one to selectively forget. I studied it once we had broken up, but never found the courage or the will to go through with it. I don't know why if you're asking me.

Why do my thoughts talk to you, really? This is certainly a new one…

I have the weirdest of feelings lately, like a fake déjà-vu. I know how we met, I know where, but my mind keeps bringing up the image of rain, white jasmines and a smile. You had such a beautiful smile that always made me wonder why you were wasting it on me. You would make such a great father, I used to think. You would make such a lovely husband. And instead you were choosing me and my insane mood swings, me and my cowardice to even accept to the public that I was your partner.

A death eater ashamed of being with the hero of the world. Someone should congratulate me for pulling this off.

You are an egoist you know that, Potter? It's hard, so damn hard, going through everything all alone. Talking to yourself all the time because nobody knows what you're going through. I went through being in love by myself and went through being heartbroken all alone again.

Ooooh. Oh I get it. Yes. That was intentional. Clever bastard.

I'm so fucking drunk. It works though. The thought that threatens me is hidden somewhere in my brain and in this moment I don't really remember what it is…Hm…interesting indeed.

"_What do you see in me? What do you want? I do not get it"_

_You're undressing me with a passion no one has before and it is enough to tear down all my defenses. _

"_And you never will" you answer and I frown, but it's not for long because you capture my lips and enslave my mind in that instant. I was always bad at resisting you._

The news came in two weeks after the letters had stopped. Astoria brought the newspaper in the kitchen with a comment that my mind never really processed, my senses too absorbed in the early morning dew. I was feeling so calm, the anxiety of months could have been a dream.

The winter was coming to an end.

And then I cast a glance at the cover of the Prophet and I almost heard my stomach squeeze itself inside my gut. Green eyes behind round glasses, and a headline nothing had prepared me for.

I stood up and did as my soul commanded - I emptied my guts in the kitchen sink.

What else can you do, really, when the savior of the world is dead?

Ah. That was the thought I was running away from. Perfect. Now I'm trembling like crazy. Have you ever felt that if you think about something a while longer your whole sanity will collapse? That's my problem.

Lung cancer, they said. Harry Potter, the boy who lived and defeated Voldemort, father of 3 kids and husband to Ginny Weasley, dead of lung cancer.

Harry Potter is dead.

My ex lover is dead.

And I'm screaming again.

In the beginning it was the feeling of helplessness. Then numbness. Then anger. You knew you were going to die when we met. You really did want to scar me one last time, just to have it your way. Then helplessness again. And after that, pain. Blinding pain. Insanity.

I want to let go.

"_Do you dream about the future, Draco?"_

_I smile._

"_Who doesn't?" you grin and halt. "Don't stop walking! I'll fucking freeze!" I turn around to find you looking at me playfully, a serious smile on your lips._

"_Move in with me"_

_On the 16__th__ of that year's January, I made love to you all day._

So, the spell, yes. I think it is time.

I pick up the newspaper from the table and look at those green eyes again. Tears are nothing, they mean nothing. And yet they keep falling from my eyes. I leave it on the floor in front of me, so that it will be the first thing I'll see when I will have finally forgotten.

I don't want to think anymore. I am tired. I light another smoke.

Lung cancer, huh?

I'm thinking of tiny Potters again. I'm thinking of your face.

I whisper the spell and my little Potters are here again, climbing on my legs and jumping to reach my hair. I select my memories with you, one by one, and see the golden strands being dragged out of my head as the tiny versions of you pull them out and fall with a 'plop' to the floor. I watch them eat these small things that are in fact all of our relationship, knowing that when they're gone there'll be nothing left of us. There won't ever have been an 'us'.

"_Hold me"_

One by one the little yous disappear, until there's only one left. Its face is sad and it's looking at me with sparkling eyes. My finger reaches out for its' cheek, and it leans into my touch in response, the golden memory strand ready to disappear between its lips. As those green eyes open, I realize I wanted to consider you dead for so long and now it is actually true.

Suddenly my chest feels lighter. The small creature stands up and looks at me one last time before vanishing.

What am I doing on the floor? I look around, feeling confused. There's a newspaper in front of me. I pick it up and stare at the cover. I know those eyes. For some reason I do not get, my heart begins to beat faster.

"The Hero of our World, dead of lung cancer" it is an old newspaper.

I stand up and throw it on a nearby chair. I take another pull of my smoke and realize that I'm coughing. Weird.

The phone's ringing.

I pick it up in a trance.

"Hello?"

A woman is sobbing. My heart sinks at the sound.

"Astoria? Is that you?"

She does not talk for a while, crying quietly. For some reason it soothes me and I don't speak a word, allowing her to calm down.

"I'm cold, Draco"

I do not know why, but that phrase hits me like a punch in the face and I turn around for no reason at all, just to have a look at that newspaper again.

The voice on the phone is suddenly so distant. I think it's crying again. My mind slips off to pine trees and snow. Everything around me is a blur. There's only one thought in my head.

Harry Potter, the boy on the train, is dead.

Yes, everything is cold.


	6. Talents

_I don't remember anything that concerns __him. As if he was a side effect of the booze, or the smoke of my cigarette that killed me and run for its life. A friend used to say that lies don't kill you. __I bet my life he was wrong__._

* * *

_Chapter's soundtrack : Hero - Regina Spektor  
_

**Talents**

_Hey._

_It sure took me long enough, right? _

They couldn't decide where to bury you, you know. They kept moving your body around for years, as if they had gotten jealous of the Christians' Saints and had finally found one of their own.

And now you're buried here, by yourself. Honor is loneliness, I always believed that. I look around the rain-washed grass shivering in September's chilly winds, pale green mixing with cold silver, knowing they went for peaceful but fearing they managed to make you feel isolated instead.

_So, how are you?_

_Where._

_Are you._

Why do I even care.

Lung cancer. How lame. I think you never really believed you were a wizard. Deep inside you felt Muggle, didn't you?

Pathetic.

"I didn't save you so that you could die like this, you fool." I don't know why I speak this out loud, I just always hated it when you disregarded me, and I have to let you know even now, 'late' is not a word I recognize. As soon as the phrase leaves my mouth a gush of wind swirls around my body, blowing my hair away from my face and making me shiver. I hate coincidences.

Especially when they are paired with a huge gap in my memory and an irreversible spell of my wand.

Irreversible. The word echoes in my head. I take my wand out of my pocket and stare at it in a trance wondering why I always feel numb when I think about it. What is it that I wanted to forget. When did I become such a weak man that I can't handle memories.

_What have you done to me, Potter._

I found a box with your name on it in my closet, it had a shirt in it. A black shirt. I think that's when I finally understood.

What fool performs a memory charm without destroying the evidence first. What kind of a desperate fool.

We were sleeping together, weren't we.

I take a smoke out of my pocket and fire it up. Word was out they found you dead in an abandoned apartment, your tobacco within arm's reach, a different wedding ring on your finger. I won't even dare think about that. No, no.

I simply came by to say hello. I simply came by to say…

I take a pull of my smoke, and feel my throat react in disgust. I don't smoke that regularly anymore. Only when it rains and I'm alone, I guess. But I felt as if I owed this one to you.

I don't know why, Harry Potter. I don't know why, but I am sorry.

"I'm sorry"

I point my wand at your grave and watch as branches and leaves hug that cold stone that reads "Harry Potter, beloved husband and father, world hero". My brow furrows and anger boils in me in an instant. I hate it. The branches launch, all angry and blanched, until only your name is left visible. The white blossoms peek out from between the mass of green, filling the air with a tantalizing perfume of spring .

I kneel and plunge my smoke in the ground in front of the tombstone, watching as it swirls and hugs the earth, burning up…burning…

"my treat" I whisper, caressing the little flowers and pressing my palm against the stone.

Why did you give up, what couldn't you bear, couldn't anyone help? You were the man that dragged me out of Fiend Fire, you were afraid of nothing, I was the coward, I was the loner. How did it come to this?

"Here. Have the whole pack. I guess it gets lonely"

I think I have to leave now.

I stand up, my heart pounding inside my chest, my throat feeling dry and my eyes watery.

_I miss your smile sometimes._

You had said the world could be better, that the dark times were behind, that you could finally be happy.

You were wrong about everything - I guess it was a talent.

I turn around to leave, feeling as if the ground has grown hands and is keeping me still.

"See ya"

_It's high time you let go.  
_

- The End._  
_


End file.
